Chapter One

 

The assistant real estate agent shifted the chewing gum to the other side of her mouth then she placed her hands on her shapely hips and thrust out her breasts in what she liked to believe was an intimidating posture.

'Dalker Formyle,' she asked suspiciously. 'That's your real name; right?'

Formyle nodded; he eyed the twenty-four-year-old brunette with a barely concealed hump lust.

'Yes ma'am.'

Man, thought Formyle, but her tits were incredible. How he'd just love to ram his cock between those pouty Italiano lips of hers and rip that tight skirt from her curvy little backside. Maybe hurl her over her office desk then grind her doggy style and screw her non-existent brains out. Come to think of it, that just might happen if he didn't find a way to give himself some hand relief within the next couple of minutes.

Despite herself, Josefina Garland was beginning to cream to the phoney English accent.

She noted that his eyes kept flickering about the office far too quickly to absorb any of the property information in the display cases. She assumed wrongly that he couldn't hack proper eye contact, that he was just another shy egghead with zero social skills. After all, the up-and-coming neighbourhood was infested with such third-level intelligentsia.

In actual fact he was using his fertile mind to calculate the volume of air in the room. He noted the gentle hum of the air conditioning; the renewal of fresh oxygen from the street would be fast, continuous.

There were no obvious signs of any other work colleagues, no computers idling in the background. He'd take the chance that they were all out with other clients; nevertheless, he knew it was a dangerous game he was playing.

Her perfume was making him giddy. He produced his passport; he gambled that she'd be too stupid to spot the photo replacement. The fake had cost him a small fortune and he half-wondered where the real Dalker Formyle was. Hopefully obediently dead or doing eternity in some prison hell-hole somewhere.

The 'ma'am' routine did the trick. She softened somewhat and paused to take a better look at her latest client.

The characterless face made it difficult to guess his real age. Josefina wouldn't have believed it but his passport claimed him to be doubtful thirty-nine years old. He had a half-starved look about him and she decided he looked like he could use a good meal. The piercing intensity of his washed out blue eyes was softened somewhat by a pair of wire frame glasses; they helped a little to detract from the mystery of the faint, silvery scars that marred the bridge of his aquiline nose.

He gave her the jitters.

Jeez, she thought, he could pass for a teenager. Still, if he really had the money to buy the dump, then what's to argue?

She barely glanced at his ID. If it was an investment property this so-called Mister Formyle was after then he couldn't have chosen a better location. The three storey detached brownstone was directly opposite the western entrance to the university; a win-win situation if student rental was his game. Accommodation in this part of Manhattan was next to impossible to find and the sky-high rents reflected that fact. Strange that he should insist on the purchase without a surveyor's report; unless of course, he intended to fix the place up himself.

'Would this be dependent on mortgage approval ─Mistuh Formyle?'

The reply was flat, almost contemptuous.

'Offer them eight ... cash.'

She managed to swallow her shock.

'Oh yes ... oh yes, Mistuh Formyle, I'm sure that will be more than acceptable. Please, ya gotta call me Josefina. Er, may I offer you coffee ─ a tea perhaps?' She pronounced it "Caw-fee."

The babe was pure Brooklyn Italiano. All hairspray beehive and don't-touch, scarlet fingernail extensions. The fake claws clashed with her patent leather stilettos. The skirt hugged her hourglass figure and the jacket sported quarterback shoulder pads. The overall effect was vintage film noir, cum fuck me, big boy. Formyle was starting to dig her big time. Her impeccable wardrobe couldn't conceal that sweet ass to die for either. He turned away to hide the bulge in his trousers; the need to jack himself off was becoming unbearable. The gentle bounce of her braless tits decided it for him. Deffo she was going to be his first guinea pig ─ If he had the balls, that is.

He cleared his throat.

'No thank you. Please conclude the deal as quickly as you can. If you can close before the end of the month, that'll land you an extra generous bonus for yourself─'

'Well,' she blushed, 'that's real kind of you, Mistuh Formyle. Is there─'

'I don't suppose I might use your rest room?'

'Sure,' she said with a puzzled look. 'It's right through there.'

While she was distracted he angled the flower in his lapel until the concealed atomiser was aimed directly at her face.

Formyle had the briefest moment of regret. It was the last of his stash and he was about to blow it on a one-off fuck session with this empty-headed doll. The tiny amount of liquid had taken almost three weeks of touch-and-go distillation and there'd be no more until he was able to purchase a property and set up another home-made laboratory for himself.

He sucked in a lungful of air then squeezed the tiny rubber bladder in his trouser pocket. He made haste toward the toilet before the invisible cloud of vapour had a chance to affect him as well. That would have been most unfortunate; most unfortunate indeed.

He closed the toilet door behind him and sighed with gratitude. It was such a relief to finally free his furious organ from his underpants.

Formyle was proud of his penis. If the rest of him was physically unimposing, then the ten inches of beautifully circumcised weaponry that swung between his skinny thighs more than made up for it. Had he any kind of a personality, then he might have counted his blessings; after all, it seemed the gods had compensated his chronic shyness and his emaciated frame with a monster cock; that and what would prove to be the deadly advantage of an ultra superior brain.

 

Four years earlier, his PHD in Chemo-biological engineering had secured him a position with a secret research team in an isolated laboratory set deep in the Nevada desert. It took only a couple of days for his brilliant colleagues to grudgingly concede that they were indeed rubbing shoulders with a genius of the first water.

The multi-national pharmaceutical giant Pfuezel had set aside twenty million in the quest for the perfect male aphrodisiac and Formyle threw himself into his work with a passion that set his fellow lab rats to shame. The idea was to isolate a particular combination of genes and add them to a liquid formula that they hoped would instantly overpower the libido of any female of the species. They needed something so powerful it would drive a woman literally crazy with uncontrollable lust. If they succeeded then the commercial implications of such an enhanced masculine perfume were mind-boggling. Indeed, was there a single male on the planet who wouldn't gladly hand over his week's wages for such a formula? Why, the board of directors at Pfuezel knew they could set their own goddamn price.

Just think about it, maybe just around the corner was the penultimate in Spanish fly, something that was money-back guaranteed to make any unsuspecting babe trip over herself in her haste to rip her own panties off.

Ultimately the quest proved to be a failure; the team were quietly paid off and that seemed to be the end of the matter. However, unbeknownst to his fellow researchers, Formyle had discovered something far more devastating during his endless all-night solo sessions in the laboratory; a highly potent liquid spray that overpowered the reasoning faculties of the brain through the nasal membranes. Thus encouraged, he laboured on feverishly, enduring night after night of experiment and failure sustained only by the billions-to-one chance that he might actually discover the wherewithal to realise his wildest, most criminal of sexual fantasies.

He'd already explored all the possible avenues of hypnotism and mind control; to put some poor babe under through auto-suggestion and convince her to obey the lewd and filthy commands of a masterful mesmerist has been every man's dream since time immemorial but, after many months of careful research, Formyle finally knew it to be nonsense. Of course he knew a limited degree of control could be invoked using time-honoured methods, but never enough to induce the victim to engage in any morally repugnant activities against her own subconscious will. Knowing all that, he'd long concluded that the only practical and certain way to assert complete dominance over another human being was through the use of bio-chemicals.

In the end he was ninety-per cent sure he could rely on his perfected formula. Its principal ingredients were pheromones, Rohypnol and a variety of opiates that he'd somehow managed to fuse into a biological agent capable of melding with his own sperm. And then one night there it was, sitting on a lab table, perhaps the ultimate elixir in sexual freedom.

When he'd finally realised what he'd stumbled upon, the shaken scientist had locked himself away in a motel for several days just to overcome the escalating panic attacks of elation and fear and growing paranoia. He knew only too well that if his own or any other government got wind of his secret then they'd have no compunction whatsoever in cutting and burning it from the tortured flesh of his living body.

When he'd sunk enough alcohol and smoked enough dope he finally managed to get his act together. He knew he'd have to put some serious distance between himself and the laboratory and any overlooked traces of what he'd been doing and leave it all far behind him.

He needed anonymity so he decided to Greyhound it. He chose a destination at random and boarded the bus then he disappeared with his terrible secret buried deep in his head to seek refuge in southern haven of Florida. The Sunshine State proved to be a rich hunting ground and he wasn't to surface again for another three years. Somehow in that time he managed to legally acquire a fortune in difficult-to-explain donations from a select handful of elderly millionaires. That money managed to find its way directly into his various bank accounts. By the time he zeroed in on the big Apple, an increasingly confident Formyle was at last in the enviable position of being able to scorn the tyranny of having to work for a living.

 

Now he was stuck with a raging hard-on in a New York toilet with his very first potential field research subject standing in her office, wondering what the hell was taking him so long.

Formyle resisted the urge to stroke himself off. If his calculations were correct then the broad might soon be subdued enough to take care of his aching cock. But he needed to be sure. He knew was taking a deadly gamble; if his creation failed to work, then he'd soon be in a world of hurt with the NYPD.

He checked his watch. Three minutes was more than enough time for the drug to take effect but he was still nervous. If it didn't work soon then maybe the uppity office junior might suspect him of shooting sperm all over her squeaky clean bathroom.

He angled his penis until it was pointing comfortably skywards. He used his belt to hold it in place then he covered his stomach with his shirt and steeled himself.

Show time!